


in blackwater woods

by kbaycolt



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Horror, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Ghosts, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by The Haunting of Hill House, M/M, Manipulation, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27620368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbaycolt/pseuds/kbaycolt
Summary: Magnus House was a dark, looming structure; quiet malice lined its floorboards, saturating the peeling white paint of the exterior, seeping into the soil packed beneath it. It rested in silence, hollow and starved.Over the hundred years it stood, fenced in by towering forest on all sides, no amount of rot nor mold nor ruin had managed to kill it.
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson, Jonah Magnus & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Agnes Montague, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Melanie King/Helen Richardson, Peter Lukas/Jonah Magnus, Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 19
Kudos: 26





	1. presentiment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowers_and_lavender](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowers_and_lavender/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pr·sen·ti·ment
> 
> /prə’zen(t)əmənt/
> 
> n. an intuitive feeling about the future, especially one of foreboding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: None.

Magnus House was a dark, looming structure; quiet malice lined its floorboards, saturating the peeling white paint of the exterior, seeping into the soil packed beneath it. It rested in silence, hollow and starved. Over the hundred years it stood, fenced in by sweeping forest on all sides, no amount of rot nor mold nor ruin had managed to kill it.

Gertrude Robinson stood alone on the grounds, staring at the house. She was surrounded by the ruins of the manor garden, now wild and overgrown with thorny pink roses and clumps of invasive weeds, the vines under her feet tangled in such a tightly-woven carpet that nothing short of arson would tear them apart. A gentle, cool fog crept along the ground, tasting her shoes with wispy grey tongues.

She stared at the house, and the house stared back.

Somewhere, within those still and wicked walls, she knew he was watching her. It was only a matter of waiting for his patience to wear thin. They were both incredibly skilled at the art of biding time, so it was reasonable to expect a good long while before he emerged from his den, reasonable to not hold her breath—But Gertrude had eternity. He lived by a ticking clock.

The design of the house itself inspired a certain disgust, that even now she could not shake. Its slanting angles, the touch of gothic revival architecture. There was balance, but not symmetry, and as a result the house leaned in odd directions and seemed to be stacked upon itself like haphazard bricks, no rhyme yet certainly a rhythm. The curve of the arched windows lent the house's facade a cruel humor, as though it were sneering down at her. She resisted the urge to make a crude, petty gesture at it.

Along the ground, the fog was growing more bold, creeping over her shoes and swirling around her ankles. She kicked at it in warning.

Her gaze roamed the layered shingles on the roof, the collapsed chimney, the cracked and faded stained glass windows. The front door was sensibly shut, though she supposed if she were to try it, it would prove to be unlocked. He wasn't in the business of turning away potential guests.

The sound of crunching twigs hardly broke the grave atmosphere, and failed to draw Gertrude's attention from the house.

A warm hand touched her shoulder. "Having a staring contest again, are we?" Agnes murmured, voice calm and level despite the humor.

"Hardly," Gertrude scoffed.

The hand moved to lightly clasp her upper arm. Agnes gazed at Gertrude in her periphery, brown eyes deep and enthralling like embers. She wore a light, sleeveless yellow dress that seemed uncomfortably bright in the dawn gloom. Too cheerful for a place like this. "You know he won't come out," she said. "Glaring at the house all hours of the day like this won't change his mind."

"I don't expect it to. I just don't want him to grow comfortable with my absence, that's all."

"He can't. Not when he knows you're out here, somewhere. In fact, I think if you stayed away more, it would make him even more nervous. Keeps up the anticipation."

Gertrude finally tore her eyes from the house and met Agnes' steady look. "Perhaps you're right."

"Care to walk with me?"

"Of course." Gertrude allowed Agnes to take her arm, steering her away from Magnus House and its brooding decay.

It would be there tomorrow. No amount of rot nor mold nor ruin could kill a place like that, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Welcome to what I like to call, Starting To Post My NaNoWriMo Project Early Because I Need Encouragement To Finish And Want People To Hold Me Accountable.
> 
> So. I'm very proud to present this to you all. Content warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter, so please be sure to heed those. If you need a warning for something I haven't included, just ask.
> 
> And finally, fair warning; this isn't a fic with a happy ending, so please be aware of that. Despite many moments of humor and levity, this very much leans into the tragedy/horror elements of TMA. Consume content responsibly, kids.
> 
> Updates are every Friday. Thank you so much for reading!


	2. keyframe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> key·frame
> 
> /kēfrām/
> 
> 1\. n. a moment that seemed innocuous at the time, but ended up marking a diversion into a strange new era of your life—set in motion, not by a series of jolting epiphanies, but by tiny imperceptible differences between one ordinary day and the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: None.

Perhaps foolishly, Jon had not actually bothered to look into Magnus House before they moved in.

It was Sasha who found the ad. She had been scouring real estate websites for weeks, occasionally sending screenshots of available houses to their house hunting group chat, fondly nicknamed The Polycule Guild by Tim. After four homes in a row with identical white picket fences, idyllic awnings, and uniform trimmed grass precisely 2.5 inches tall, Jon had informed his roommates that he would not be living in any house under the iron rule of a homeowner's association, and that was the end of that.

Afterwards, Sasha seemingly dropped her search for a few weeks. Jon almost felt bad for being too selective.

Until one night during dinner, when she dropped her silverware with a loud clatter and declared, "I've found us a place. We can move within the week."

Sasha had always lent a certain weight to her words; a weight that made suggestions or comments seem undeniably final. Whether she was aware of this or not was yet to be seen. But regardless, the moment she announced she'd found a house, the decision had essentially been made for them. They were moving.

The reason for the move in the first place wasn't all that complicated. They were all fresh out of college, burned out, alone, and greedily clutching their degrees with no small amount of fervency. Additionally, without their scholarships carrying them past most financial concerns, there was a newfound need to cut down on boarding costs, and living together was an easy solution to all issues. Each of them had plans to attend uni in autumn, but their current shared flat in the middle of London wasn't anywhere near their preferred schools, which they had coordinated to fall within the same general area of one another. They needed to find somewhere cheap to rent or buy before the end of summer, or else they'd be out of luck.

A source of pride for her, Sasha came through for everyone. Magnus House. A beautiful, abandoned gothic revival mansion in the middle of nowhere, Worcestershire.

The sheer distance from London to the little town of Twichdrew proved a point of contention between them; there was Jon, arguing that he'd never spent two hours in a car in his entire life; Martin, who nervously piped up that he thought that was rather far, wasn't it, and maybe we could compromise with something closer? And finally, Tim, who couldn't help reminding them that driving from the easternmost point to the westernmost point of a single state in America could take at the very least eleven hours—at which point Sasha threw a pencil at him and told him not to desecrate the sanctity of their flat by invoking the United States. Jon thought that was fair.

Three minutes into perusing the house's webpage, Jon's attention was stolen away by other things, namely Tim's incessant attempts to get Jon to film him performing a solemn and peninent monologue about "overcoming his gay affliction" to persuade his Catholic relatives to invite him to the Christmas parties again.

On some level, Jon must have accepted that Sasha had everything figured out, and his mind had quietly filed it away under the "Misc" section in his brain as not something to be prioritized. That was his first mistake.

His second mistake was allowing Tim to drive for the first hour on their way to Twichdrew. The man had no concept of road ethics nor safety laws, which did bring into question Jon's taste in romantic partners.

The drive was beautiful, as most ventures across the English countryside tended to be. It was a warm, unusually mild morning when they packed their belongings into Sasha's car and headed out of London. Jon had ended up crammed into the backseat with Martin and a stack of suitcases, which wasn't as altogether unpleasant as he'd initially feared. Tim jammed in a mixtape and turned the volume up, and Sasha rolled the windows down a sliver, letting in a steady rush of fresh air. Tim's music taste was unfortunate, but at least Martin wasn't in charge of the radio.

Worcestershire unfolded before them, like an urban curtain being drawn back, bit by bit, to reveal rolling green hills and bright grey skies as far as the eye could see. Jon had visited the broader country only once, when he was young child, for a family reunion in the wake of his parents' passing. It had not been a fun experience, and he had thought about it as he rested his head on Martin's shoulder, smiling faintly at Sasha and Tim's bickering over the music in the front. It felt like starting over.

 _I'll do things right, this time,_ he had thought, as Martin pressed a kiss to his hair. _I'll do things right_.

* * *

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen and unaffiliated folk, to the esteemed Magnus House. With the wild, overgrown lawn, the hole to the earth's core on the patio, and the shattered windows, one can confidently say that this place is simply top of line in terms of spookiness and gothic aesthetic! Now, would the newest tenants like to say a few words?"

"Knock it off, Tim," Martin said, batting away the tape recorder that Tim waved in his face. "I think it's charming."

"You would."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all."

"What Tim means to say is," Sasha interjected, slamming the car door behind her, "of course you'd think an ancient, abandoned manor in the countryside is charming. It's who you are."

"And we love you for it!" Tim added.

Jon stuck his head out of the open window. "Well, _I_ think it's a disaster."

Magnus House was imposing as it was sad. The crooked, odd angles of the facade made it appear slumped, pressed down by some heavy burden. It almost seemed to list, ever so slightly, to one side. Jon's gaze traced the peeling white paint and missing roof shingles with some dismay. Quite frankly, it didn't look livable; just deeply, profoundly abandoned, in a way that sent a shiver skittering down his spine. Staring up at it from the gravel drive, Jon wanted nothing whatsoever to do with it.

But it wasn't as though they had any other options.

With a sigh, Jon got out of the car, hauling a few suitcases with him. Martin hurried to take some of the load when Jon began to stumble under the weight.

"It could be nice," Tim said, considering. He clicked off the tape and stuffed it into his pocket. "It's not the pinnacle of hospitality right now, but I don't think it'd be too difficult to fix it up. We did know we'd have some work to do, going in."

Jon grumbled. Martin patted his shoulder in sympathy.

"It'll be alright," he said. He hefted the luggage easily, which Jon took personally as a jab at his own stature. "We've got all summer."

"I suppose you're right."

"Come on, slowpokes!" Sasha called from the top of the drive.

"How did she get up there so fast?" Jon muttered, kicking the car door shut and following after Martin and Tim as they began the trek up to the house.

"Sasha and her long legs," Tim said, shaking his head. "Putting Marto and I to shame."

The three of them followed the upwards slope of gravel to the top of the hill, where Magnus House was fenced in on three sides by thick woodland. The trees stretched tall and rail-thin, slim toothpicks poking at the flat grey sky above. They passed by a stretch of land completely coated in a web of ivy and tightly woven bushes of thorn, which Jon grimaced at. 

"Is that... supposed to be a garden?" Martin asked, eyeing it. "It's sort of..."

"Disastrously overrun," Jon said sourly. "Whoever the groundskeeper is, they need to be fired, and possibly charged with criminal negligence."

"Aw, lighten up." Tim slung an arm around Jon's shoulders, smiling. "I bet they're a hobbled old man or something, and can't bend over to pull weeds because his spine will start snapping like a glowstick."

"At that point, euthanasia is the kindest option."

Martin made a strained, choking sound as he tried not to laugh and failed.

"Woah! We're really going for it today, aren't we?" Tim pulled Jon against his side and ruffled his hair. Jon sighed. "How does this sound: when we get inside, I'll check out the kitchen situation, and Martin can make you some of his famous tea, and then you'll be all cozy and not grouchy anymore. Yeah?"

"Only if Martin makes it," Jon relented. He let his shoulders slump, some of the tension leaving his muscles. It wouldn't be all that bad. They had all summer to get this place in good condition, like Martin said. Time had proved, again and again, that nothing was as awful as his mind's worst-case scenario.

Tim made an offended sound. "What's wrong with my and Sasha's tea?"

"You let it steep too long, it's always bitter, and Sasha, well. Don't even defend her tea."

"... That's fair."

They reached the top of the hill. The front door had been left open for them, propped open by a little wedge of wood. Jon frowned at the darkness that lay within the entry hall, unable to see anything beyond the first few steps. Releasing him, Tim adjusted his grip on his bags and marched into the house. _Wait no stop_ bubbled in the back of Jon's throat; unfounded anxiety that he swallowed down. Without fanfare, he lifted his chin, stared into the quiet darkness, and crossed the threshold of Magnus House.

Tim flicked on the light switch. A dingy yellow bulb illuminated the dusty entryway, casting them in a dim, weak glow. Jon blinked for a few moments, allowing his eyes to adjust to the lighting.

“Woah,” Martin murmured in wonder.

The floor was a rich mahogany, perhaps once sleek and polished but now rotten, coated in a thick layer of dust. Two sets of descending staircases penned them in. Up ahead, Tim was wandering into the main hall, whistling a tune from some 80s horror movie that Jon couldn’t quite place. The ceiling sloped low and odd overhead.

“Spooky,” Tim called back to them, as they stood still by the open door, pale light puncturing the gloom. “Could’ve been the set for ‘Poltergeist’.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re whistling,” Martin said. He hurried off after Tim. “I never liked that movie.”

“Pfft. No taste.”

“It scared the shit out of me.”

“Everything scares the shit out of you.”

“Hey-!”

Jon lingered in the entryway. Tim and Martin’s laughter seemed to be swallowed up by Magnus House, as if it was designed to absorb and muffle any sound. Already, he began to feel stifled, knowing though he could still open his mouth and speak, he doubted it would reach very far at all. Sound cannot travel in a vacuum. He learned that in middle school.

He glanced behind him, at the open door. The metal was cool under his fingers when he grasped the knob, and quietly eased it shut.

* * *

Pale green wallpaper, patterned with ornate mandalas. Aged lace curtains, tied back to allow light to filter through the shuttered windows. Polished wooden dressers. One bed, big enough for three and neatly made. Several unlit lamps stationed by each corner. A disconcertingly realistic painting on the far wall, depicting a handsome young man with bright green eyes and auburn curls.

Jon stood in the middle of his room, slightly overwhelmed.

They had bickered over the rooms for a few minutes, debating who wanted to be by the stairs, who wanted more windows, who wanted to be closest to Tim, et cetera. After Sasha, intelligently, picked up her things and simply took one of the rooms, Jon had followed suit.

His room, like the rest of the house, was posh and fancy and overall extremely decadent for Jon’s tastes. He hadn’t exactly grown up in the lap of luxury, in the little family house in Bournemouth, and it had instilled in him a certain disdain for rich people and their inclinations towards avarice.

Still. Even he could admit it was beautiful. At its height, it must have been worth quite a large sum of money, if the sheer effort put into its interior decorating was anything to go by.

Which brought up another question. One that stayed with Jon as he helped to ferry their belongings into the house; turned over in his mind as he unpacked a few of his suitcases, avoiding the eyes of the young man’s portrait on the wall, which seemed to follow him; and hovered, on the tip of his tongue, when he made his way down to the ground floor and found Sasha in the kitchen, leaning on her toes to look out of the window over the sink.

She had the blinds spread with her fingers, glasses flashing with the light glare. She dropped down as he entered, spinning on her heels to give him a smile. The blinds clattered back into place.

“Hey, Jon,” she said. “So? How do you like it?”

Jon glanced over the kitchen. Checkerboard floors. Dusty glass cabinets obscuring empty shelves, lining the walls. In the center of the room, a small, squat table sat. The surface was shiny and clean, with a strange pattern in the wood that snaked and twisted in thin lines, spiraling towards the center. The beginnings of a headache twinged behind his eyes as he tried to follow the pattern, and he quickly tore his gaze away.

“We have a lot of work ahead of us,” he replied, crossing his arms. Sasha looked at him expectantly. “... But it’s nice, yes. Extremely nice.”

 _Too nice,_ he didn’t say, _for the price we were offered_.

“Right? I thought Martin was going to jump out of his skin when he saw that every staircase had a bannister.”

“Poor person syndrome,” Jon said wisely.

Sasha hummed in agreement. “I was thinking we could take a few days to get settled before we start cleaning up, you know? An adjustment period. And, uh,” she began, looking over at him sheepishly, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys how run-down it was. I sort of assumed ‘abandoned mansion’ spoke for itself. And besides, I think it’ll be good for us! To do actual manual labor for once in our lives!”

“Speak for yourself. I spent every day of my childhood doing grueling physical tasks, from sunrise to sunset.”

“Washing dishes and sweeping floors aren’t grueling tasks, Jon, they’re household chores that your grandmother couldn’t do herself.”

Jon sniffed haughtily. “I'm _athletic_. I scaled fences and trespassed on private property during my investigative journalism phase.”

“Haven’t we all.” Sasha brushed a few black curls out of her face, looking down at the spiral table. She tapped its sleek surface with one nail. “Did you get a good look at this? I thought it was unusual. I’ve never seen this sort of craftsmanship before.”

“It gives me a headache.”

“It’s not that ugly.”

“No, th-the uh, the pattern. It’s nauseating.”

Sasha frowned, eyes locked on the whorls and crooked angles that compose themselves into nonsense. Jon winced and had to look away again. “I guess so. I’m thinking it probably belonged to one of the old owners.”

“Why didn’t they take it with them, then?”

With a soft laugh, Sasha removed her hand from the table, turning away. “Maybe it was so _nauseating_ they just _had_ to leave it behind.”

“Yes, yes, very funny to mock my pain.”

* * *

“It’s creepy,” Martin announced to the empty hallway.

“It’s been abandoned for years, of course it’s creepy,” Tim replied easily. He got to his feet from where he was crouched, inspecting the fine layer of dust that coated the parlor tile. Martin hovered in a doorway, of which there were three; the parlor connected to almost every other room on the ground floor. Tim had, of course, immediately given himself a quick tour of the place, once they had finished bringing in the stuff from the car.

“I don’t _like_ it.”

“That’s what you said about ‘Children of the Corn’, and you loved it when we watched it.”

“I did not say that. I said it was _fine_. And, and in all fairness, I was trying to not hurt your feelings since you were so excited, but I was really _really_ not enjoying myself by the end. I-I mean, I couldn’t stop thinking about how dark it was, and all the sharp objects in our kitchen, a-and whatnot—” Martin cut himself off with a huff. “You know what I mean! And I know I said it was charming, but _that_ was for Jon’s sake. He was already wound up, I didn’t want to put ideas in his head that might make him regret the move.”

“Alright, okay. I believe you. The house is creepy and you don’t like it.” Tim couldn’t exactly say he disagreed. It was eerie, for sure. By virtue of being an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere, it was bound to be unnerving. But Tim wasn’t going to let some superstition spoil what was going to be the best summer of his life.

Fixing up a gorgeous mansion in the beautiful English countryside, with the three people he loved the most? It was everything he could have ever asked for. And in autumn, he would be going to Uni with them as well. Icing on the cake.

“Do you think I shouldn’t have done that?” Martin asked anxiously, wringing his hands. “Lied to Jon about what I thought?”

“Jon’s a paranoid bastard. I think that was a good call.”

Martin frowned, unsure. Tim sighed and reached out, touching his boyfriend’s shoulder lightly.

“You were sparing him stress,” Tim told him, firm. “He’d appreciate it.”

That was essentially the first few months of Tim’s friendship with Jonathan Sims. There was Jon, taking one look at something, latching onto its negative potential, and immediately setting out to stress himself into an early grave; and then there was Tim, doing damage control. That little man held so much pent-up anxiety under his skin, it was a miracle he hadn’t come completely unraveled yet. By the time they were dating, Sasha and Tim had turned it into a fine art of withholding just enough information that Jon wouldn’t freak out over it, but wouldn’t be too angry at them in the aftermath.

It had worked so far.

“Look,” Tim said. “We love him, but we both know he needs to chill out sometimes. Right?”

Martin nodded.

“So, you’re fine. With luck, he won’t even find out.”

Tim gave Martin another warm smile, before turning and wandering into the nearby study, internally sighing. Martin’s worry, like Jon’s, tended to override his common sense. Which Tim knew.

He made his way over to the window, which was missing any curtains. All the better, because to his pleasant surprise, he noticed the window was a collage of stained glass, glowing faintly in the midday gloom. He reached out to touch it. The shiny green glass was slightly warm under his fingers.

“This house is just a shell,” he said to Martin, without turning around. “Where old rich men used to live. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“If you say so.”

Tim ran his thumb over the shape in the center of the window, where the colorful panes met in a jumble of curves and circles within circles. He thought it vaguely resembled an eye, if he looked from the right angle. A single green, staring eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes about this chapter:
> 
> \- The town of Twichdrew is fictional. It sounds super British which is why I picked it.  
> \- Everyone is taller than Jon. This is very relevant.
> 
> Thank you for reading, make sure to leave a comment if you want to see more!


	3. cognoscarent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cog·no·sca·re·nt
> 
> /känyə’shär(ə)nt/
> 
> i.v. to explore a new presence, catalogue their movements, each step, each touch; to breathe in and out alongside them, learning to adjust yourself so as to grow comfortable with the intrusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: Some spookiness, but you knew that already.

The first night at Magnus House, Martin awoke in the dark to find his bedroom freezing cold.

It wasn’t so unusual at first. He didn’t run warm on the best of days, and some shivering was expected when the only available blankets were thin sheets, but because he’d expected this, he had specifically moved the space heater into his room the day before, satisfied with himself for finally taking the initiative and being prepared.

The room was dark. The only window, next to his bed, was shut firmly, the heavy curtains drawn and tied by a thin cord. Very faint moonlight edged around the corners, spilling over and splaying across the carpeted floors like wispy fingers. He could see the slivers of light from where he was huddled under his sheets, his feet numb and hands tucked close to his body in hopes he could warm himself up. The sheets offered no insulation.

He wrapped them closer around his shoulders. Shouldn’t the space heater be on? He had plugged it in right next to his bed, after all.

Rolling over, he shuddered as the sheets lifted up briefly, exposing his bare skin to the chilly air. He hurriedly flattened them down, then reached out, groping for the space heater. It was warm to the touch, but not nearly as much as it should have been.

Finally, resigning himself to losing what little warmth he had, he climbed out of bed. The carpet gave slightly under his feet as he padded over the wall and crouched down, fumbling blind for the outlet. His fingers curled around the cord and he yanked it out. No use keeping a broken heater plugged in.

Maybe he _did_ leave that window open after all. There was no other way to explain the shivers that raked down his spine, rippled across his arms. He rubbed his hands together.

Upon drawing the curtains open, bright moonlight filled the room, easing some of his strain to see. Beyond the dusty glass panes, the house’s lawn rolled down in a gentle slope down to meet the treeline, which was shrouded in shadow.

Out here in the countryside, the light pollution was nearly absent. The strip of night sky he could see from this position was a deep, dark indigo, scattered with distant stars.

 _No sights quite like this in London,_ he mused.

Then he noticed the fog.

It was low, and thin. Barely noticeable, really. But with the faint light from his window, it was illuminated, taking on a silvery sheen as it creeped over his carpet, coiling loosely around his ankles. He stepped back, bumping into a dresser; the fog was icy to the touch, like frigid water was being doused over his bare feet.

Martin didn’t know what sort of weather phenomenon created fog _inside_ houses, but he also reasoned he didn’t really know much about a lot of things, so who was to say this wasn’t a common occurrence in Twichdrew?

The warm June air outside should flush out the fog. He unlatched the ancient window and shoved it open. The old wood creaked dangerously under his hands, but when nothing broke, he guessed he was probably safe for now.

Nighttime sounds rushed in to fill the quiet. Droning cricketsong cut off sharply, before striking up again in a low hum of noise. A cold breeze gusted by, blowing his hair into his face.

“Really?” he whispered harshly at no one. The fog drifted over his feet, so cold it stung. “It’s summertime, for Christ’s sake.”

He reached up and tugged the window back down, ignoring the worrying crack as it slotted into place. Once he finished locking it, he grabbed his sheets, wrapped them around himself, and stepped out of his room, shutting the fog inside. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep like this. The empty hallway was still. Everyone was sleeping.

Some quick mental calculations were needed here. He ruled out Sasha first. She had organized almost everything, she was probably exhausted, and he’d feel awful about interrupting her sleep to complain about being cold.

Next he also ruled out Jon, who he knew from experience did not react well to being woken up, no matter how gently anyone did it.

So that just left Tim.

Martin hurried away from his door, out of some irrational fear that the fog would escape and follow him. Tim’s room was right down the hall, marked by the yellow sticky note that Tim had pinned on the front yesterday, proclaiming in thick bold letters: **STOKER RESIDENCE**. Martin gently twisted the knob, easing the door open.

“Tim?” he whispered.

From within the shadowed room, the heap of pillows and sheets shifted. Tim’s head poked out of the cocoon he created, squinting sleepily into the darkness in Martin’s direction.

“Sorry to wake you,” Martin said as quietly as possible, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. “It’s just. Well. My room is cold, and I couldn’t sleep, so...”

Suddenly feeling horrifically embarrassed, he shuffled back a step, intending to quickly apologize and hurry back to his room in shame, but Tim sat up all the way, yawning.

“Don’t just stand there, come on,” Tim whispered, insistent.

Martin closed the door and made his way over to the bed. Tim drew back the sheets, and Martin slowly climbed in, wincing, mortified, as the bed dipped with his added weight. Tim’s brown eyes were hazy with sleep, inches from Martin’s. Martin tried to stay on the edge of the bed, taking up as little space as possible to minimize his intrusion, but Tim tossed the sheets over both of them and immediately curled into his side, tossing one leg over both of Martin’s and settling his head on Martin’s chest.

“You are freezing,” Tim informed him. His mussed hair tickled Martin’s chin.

Martin couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Y-Yeah. Are you sure this is okay?”

“Shh,” Tim muttered, reaching up haphazardly to press his hand over Martin’s mouth. “Goodnight.”

Smiling into Tim’s blissfully warm fingers, Martin hummed his bemused agreement. Tim removed his hand and wrapped it around Martin’s middle instead, completing the entanglement process.

“Goodnight, Tim,” Martin murmured.

In the morning, he would wake, well-rested and comfortably warm, to find there was no fog in his room at all.

* * *

“We,” Sasha announced over breakfast, “are going to get this place cleaned up today.”

After a restful first night in the house, and no mishaps yet, Sasha was in a rather bright mood. The dust lining every single hallway, along with the rotting floorboards, moth-eaten furniture, and even a damn hole in the roof on the third floor, was irking her. She had dealt with messy living situations before, but nothing quite like this.

It was going to be a fun challenge.

In a far corner of the house was a thin supply closet, which Sasha hunted down by perusing the floor plans provided to her by the current realtor.

He had been a red-faced nervous man who had seemed to grow more and more agitated as he explained to Sasha that, I’m so very sorry, but we don’t send agents to view that house, again I’m so sorry but it’s not up to me, there’s nothing I can do to help you get acquainted with the place besides this—At which point he thrust the stack of floor plans at her.

The plans were... odd, when she had first begun looking over them. There were four separate maps, each drawn by a different person who apparently had different interpretations of Magnus House’s layout. They universally agreed on the locations of the library, the dining room, the attic, and the supply closet, but that was where the cohesion ended.

One person had added several additional rooms to the second floor. Another omitted the living room entirely and replaced it with an admittedly detailed sketch of a large, spiraling staircase. One map had clearly been erased and redrawn multiple times; covered in faint pencil marks and flimsy to the touch.

Sasha didn’t mind too much. She figured she could just combine them to create a comprehensive map of the entire house. And if that failed, they could always draw up a master plan of their own.

The supply closet boasted the following: a mop, of which there was one; a stack of cut-up, bedraggled towels, perhaps meant to be washcloths; and a bunch of brooms, all varying in size, color, and durability. Undeterred by the disappointing array, Sasha grabbed the brooms and went back down to the landing, where the boys were looking dismally at a leak in the ceiling. Water dripped down onto the aged wood in slow, fat droplets.

“Grab a bowl or something for that, would you?” Sasha said, passing out the brooms as she did so. Martin rushed off to do that with his broom clutched to his chest. “Alright. How about we divide and conquer?”

“Yes, that sounds like a good idea,” Jon said. “I can take the first floor.”

“Got it. Tim, and Martin when he gets back, can do the second and third.”

Tim saluted her. Sasha looked up, hoping she could see where the leak was coming from, but the lamplight didn’t reach that far up into the rafters. When Martin stepped into the room, holding a ceramic bowl from the kitchen, Sasha took it and placed it under the leak.

“And I’ve got the attic,” she said to them, smiling.

They dispersed. On her way up the stairs, Jon called up to them from the parlor, “Try not to get axe murdered!”

“No promises!” Sasha yelled back.

He grumbled something indistinct. She laughed and took the rest of the stairs two at a time.

The attic trapdoor’s location was debated hotly amongst the various floor plans, with some placing it in one of the guest bedrooms, and others positing it hung directly over the edge of the mezzanine rail—I.E., a sheer drop.

(To her credit, Sasha did try the mezzanine first. She could safely say there was no entrance to attic above it, and also that she was no longer nimble enough to be scaling up and down ancient wooden rails like a delinquent teenager.)

She methodically checked every bedroom on the third floor, before finally yanking open one closet and discovering the unmistakable cord dangling from the trapdoor overhead. Grasping it firmly, she pulled, hopping out of the way as a set of rickety stairs unfolded, not without an abundance of groaning and creaking and dust billowing up in thick clouds. Sasha covered her nose and mouth with her shirt, coughing.

The wooden stairs were steep, leading up into the daunting darkness of the attic. Sasha moved around to the front step and bit her tongue, contemplating.

The chances of the stairs collapsing beneath her were low, but likely not zero, so when she placed her foot on the first step, she did so carefully, gripping the sides of the ladder and minding the possibility of splinters. Clutching her broom and dustpan awkwardly under one arm, she climbed into the attic.

The cold hit her first. It was the dry and musty coolness of stale air, stagnating in an enclosed space without disturbance. The ceiling was peaked, supported by several solid pillars. Small, circular windows allowed light in, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the space when Sasha stepped off the last stair, emerging fully into the attic. She brushed her hands off on her jeans, choosing not to see the streaks of dust she left behind.

Cardboard boxes filled up the attic, sealed and stacked one on top of the other. For the most part, the clutter was stuffed out of sight, though various pieces of junk, old furniture, and miscellaneous knickknacks could still be found, scattered in corners and spilling out of overstuffed boxes.

Sasha sneezed.

“God,” she muttered, rubbing her nose. She didn’t have allergies, but she suspected by the end of the summer, she would.

When she moved forward, she immediately stepped on something. At her feet, a small ragdoll was sprawled, forlorn and lonely on the floor. It had a perfect red smile with two shiny black buttons on its torso, its little white felt cap covered in purple polka dots. Sasha bent down and scooped it up, tracing its black painted eyes with her thumbnail. It was cute in a vintage sort of way.

Despite being a self-described skeptic, Sasha knew better than to dismiss a random doll in a creepy abandoned attic. Especially one sitting right in her path.

She placed it on top of a box nearby, in plain sight where she could find it again.

Once she retrieved her broom, she went ahead and started sweeping, keeping an eye on the doll as she went. Tim had a phobia of the things, which she understood but didn’t empathize with. Her favorite thing to do as a child was sit in her grandmother’s bedroom and admire the porcelain dolls on the shelves, entranced by their white faces and curious grins. As a teen, she would collect thrift shop dolls to disassemble and reassemble like cloth Frankenstein’s monsters, but when her parents expressed their disapproval of Sasha’s “feminine” hobbies, she nodded and agreed with a smile—And began going behind their backs, visiting yard and estate sales in her neighborhood to hunt down the forbidden toys.

After moving out, she developed an interest in different types of dolls; namely, haunted ones. Annabelle, Robert, Letta, Mandy. Famously known for terrorizing their owners, now perpetually on display in museums, which Sasha found a bit annoying. This modern society had a bad habit of putting things on shelves to ogle at instead of doing any substantial studies of the alleged phenomena.

The haunted dolls were a gateway drug of sorts. From there, she dove headfirst into tales of ghosts and spirits, becoming primarily intrigued by the concept of haunted houses.

She considered most reports of hauntings to be exaggerations. Souls or spirits didn’t linger, at least not in the malevolent way that most assumed. Sasha held the personal theory that most hauntings were the echoes of sudden tragedy, and that most “ghosts” were nothing but souls with nowhere to go. Nothing to be afraid of.

Haunted houses, simply put, were just places where tragic things happened; not dangerous, not evil.

So Sasha didn’t think Magnus House was scary. She wouldn’t have picked it if she thought there was anything genuinely dangerous about it. It was empty, and creepy, and maybe a bit haunted considering its history, but she hadn’t gotten around to proving or disproving that last one yet.

She maneuvered an old trunk out of the way to sweep in the corner, sleeve pressed over her nose and eyes beginning to water. She really should have invested in surgical masks.

The broom clinked against the dustpan as she swept up the small pile of dust she had collected. She turned, reaching for the door handle, and froze.

Inches away from her fingers was a matte black door knob, attached to a dark yellow door on the far wall. She slowly set her broom down and moved to stand in front of the door. It shouldn’t have been there. This was an exterior wall in the attic, there could not have been anything beyond it besides a sheer drop down.

Sasha glanced away, then looked back. The door was still there, dull and unremarkable.

Right. She had an impossible door in the empty attic that showed up on no floor plans, and was not visible from the outside. Okay. She pushed down the dread that tightened below her sternum, eyes locked on the innocuous yellow wood. Part of her wanted to shout for Tim, for Jon, for someone to come up here and confirm what she was seeing, ensure she wasn’t going insane—but she stayed silent.

With her heart in her throat, she gingerly reached out and gripped the black knob. It was warm to the touch. She tried to twist it, but it jammed. She tried again, to no avail. The door was locked.

... Or maybe, it was supposed to be there. The floor plans were so misleading, after all, most of them completely missing the presence of a yellow door in the attic wouldn’t be too far off. Sasha told herself it was probably just that, an oversight, as she backed away from the yellow door, grabbing her broom and hurrying to the attic trapdoor, where as she lowered herself down the steps, she caught one last glimpse of the far wall.

The door was gone, as if it had never been there. And likely, it hadn’t been.

She shut the trapdoor with a resounding slam.

* * *

“Tim! Get your hands out—No, no, Sasha, not you too,” Martin groaned, hovering protectively over his bowl of cake batter. “You’ll get to have plenty later!”

“Aw,” Tim said, licking his fingers with a grin. “Come on, you can’t tell me you never tasted the batter as a kid.”

“I didn’t, in fact. Mum convinced me I’d get salmonella poisoning.”

“That is just sad,” Sasha said. She was leaning on the counter, chin cradled in her palms as she eyed Martin’s bowl. He inched away from her, only to bump into Tim on his other side.

“You—” Martin grabbed a wooden spoon and turned around, raising it threateningly at them. “Shoo!”

“Watch out, Martin’s got a weapon!” Tim cried, falling back.

Jon poked his head around the corner. “What’s going on in here?”

“They’re trying to steal my batter,” Martin huffed. Though Sasha and Tim had slinked away, capitulating, he set the spoon down within reach, just in case. “I warned them about the dangers of salmonella, but clearly they’ve no regard for their health.”

“Being starved does that to a person,” Tim said solemnly.

“You’re not starving!”

Jon made his way across the kitchen and joined Martin at the countertop, smiling gently. “The chances of getting salmonella from batter or cookie dough are actually rather low. Just a little can’t hurt.”

“Jon,” Martin said, pouring the batter into a pan, “you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am! I’m just saying, a little taste isn’t going to kill anyone. Let it be known I do not support your batter-stealing ways, Tim and Sasha.”

“Thank you.”

Then Jon’s hand darted past Martin’s defenses and snuck a bit of the batter, ducking under Martin’s wooden spoon and sticking his finger in his mouth as he slipped out of reach. Tim high fived him, snickering at Martin’s scandalized gasp.

“I can’t believe you would betray me like this,” Martin said. “My boyfriends have both chosen a life of thievery.”

“It’s the bi solidarity, Martin,” Sasha informed him.

“Next time I bake anything, none of you are getting any of it. I’ll give your portions to the groundskeeper or something.” Martin opened the oven and slid the pan inside, then set the timer for twenty minutes. He didn’t typically bake, that was more Jon’s thing, but living with his partners’ sweet tooths for the last year had forced him to step it up. Following steps on a box wasn’t too difficult after all.

He most certainly hadn’t done any sort of baking as a teen, when he still lived with his mum. She would get snippy in the middle of the process and wind up making him ruin it by cracking too many eggs or spilling a ridiculous amount of oil into the bowl.

Learning how to bake with Jon was a different experience altogether. Jon knew what he was doing, and was patient with him when he made mistakes. Not endlessly patient—sometimes Jon would banish him to the living room to make things go quicker—but it was more leniency than Martin was used to.

When the cake was done, he carefully cut it into wedges and handed a serving to each of them on white paper plates, before they relocated to the living room to settle in for the night.

It had been a lovely first week in Magnus House. Martin figured there must have been a crack in his window somewhere he couldn’t see, that accounted for the cold fog that continued to creep in at night. He had made a note on The List to get caulking from the store the next time someone ventured into Twichdrew. The List was a sheet of paper Jon nailed to a wall in the parlor, detailing things that needed to be fixed or purchased.

Preliminary cleaning efforts had gone off mostly without a hitch. They’d swept almost every inch of the house, successfully removing the film of dirt and cobwebs that seemed to accumulate in exponential quantities. Sasha had reported that the attic contained only some old junk from previous owners, which she suggested might go for a good amount of money in a yard sale, in addition to being an easy way to meet their neighbors.

The only hiccups were when Jon walked face first into a giant spiderweb and nearly gave himself a heart attack, and when Martin stumbled across a hole in the floorboards where the wood had rotted and collapsed in on itself. The pit, as Tim christened it, also went on The List.

Overall, the week was a success. No fatal mishaps, no accidents, no encounters of any spooky nature.

So they were celebrating.

Martin sat down on the couch, tucking his legs underneath him while balancing his paper plate in one hand. The living room was unreasonably grand, but then again, so was the rest of the old house. Even in its state of disuse, the space screamed luxury, from the gold embroidered curtains, to the white marble fireplace, even the windows were elegant stained glass, arranged in beautiful, odd patterns. Martin found that he didn’t want the curtains drawn open as the sun sank below the treeline, casting the woods in indigo darkness.

They were completely isolated out here, on their little hill above the town, but he could still had the uncomfortable worry that someone could see them through the colored glass.

The dull scraping of wood roused him from his anxiety, as Tim and Jon pushed one of the ornate couches (benches? Chairs? Martin didn’t know how rich people differentiated types of cushioned furniture) across the newly-swept floor. Martin and Sasha pulled their legs up so the others could press the couches together, creating a vaguely bowl-esque nest for them to curl up in.

Jon climbed over the armrest and sat down across from Martin, crossing his legs and tucking his bare feet under himself. He swiped the wine bottle from Sasha, who had revealed its existence during dinner.

“Hm,” Jon said, inspecting the label. “Bordeaux. I thought you had better taste than this.” He then took a generous sip of it before passing it off to Tim.

“Oh, piss off,” Sasha said. “Bordeaux is reliable. If you’d picked it, we’d all be drinking Shiraz or something.”

“Just because you visited Iran when you were eighteen doesn’t mean—”

Sasha snapped her fingers. “Sauvignon Blanc! That’s what it was.”

“I have culture,” Jon said, glancing unsubtly at Martin’s unfinished cake. In an act of social awareness he was proud of, Martin pressed his plate into Jon’s hands. “It’s better alongside seafood anyway. ”

“You’re the only one here who likes seafood,” Tim pointed out. He was sprawled out, head in Sasha’s lap with both legs propped up on Jon’s knee.

His socks had little rainbow patterns on them. Martin resolved to steal them when laundry day rolled around.

“I grew up on a coastline,” Jon stressed. He absently stuck a forkful of cake into his mouth. “It’s not like seafood was a delicacy there, it was part of lunch on weekdays. My nani put potted shrimps on toast and a little Sauvignon Blanc in a wine glass, and that was just another Friday evening.”

“I continue to be awed by your childhood.”

Martin opened his mouth, ready to point out that Tim’s parents convinced him that a blood-sucking creature with very large ears, a long tail, and the ability to turn invisible would kill him for his heart to make amulets if he didn’t pray during holy week, but he was interrupted by a prim knock at the front door.

“We’re not expecting any visitors, are we?” Sasha asked.

“I don’t think so,” Jon said.

Getting to his feet, Martin said, “I’ve got it.” He haphazardly climbed over the back of the couch and made his way to the door, with everyone else shuffling after him. The knock came again, just three smart taps. He twisted the knob and opened it.

Standing on their front steps was a woman. She was tall and willowy, her auburn hair falling in a smooth sheet down to her waist. Her eyes were a cool, luminous brown, so dark they were almost black. Wrinkles furrowed her forehead, creasing her eyes and mouth. She held in her hands a woven basket, and her modest blue dress looked washed out and faded in the late evening dim.

“Hello,” Martin said, trying not to appear as confused as he felt. Behind him, Jon, Tim, and Sasha hovered in the hall, their curious gazes boring into the back of his skull. “Can we help you?”

“Hello,” the woman said. Her voice was low and calm. It reminded him of his grandmother’s rolling cadence, and worked to put him at ease. “My name is Agnes Montague. I am the groundskeeper of Magnus House, and I thought it was about time I introduced myself to the new owners.”

“Right. Right! Which is us, obviously.” Martin tried for a smile but knew he probably came across as frightened, which was par for the course. The others inched closer. “Hi! It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yes.” Agnes folded her hands in front of her, her eyes never leaving Martin’s face. He noticed her hands were gloved in shiny red leather that glinted in the light from within the house. “I apologize for coming around so late. I wanted to greet you when you first arrived, as I did for Gertrude, but something came up. As it is, I am pleased to be meeting you now.”

“Oh, that’s alright, we wanted to settle in for a bit first anyway. I’m Martin, Martin Blackwood.” He stepped to the side, allowing her to see his apparently newly-shy partners, who only now joined him by the door. Good to know if there was a serial killer out here, they would leave him to fend for himself. “This is Jon, Sasha, and Tim.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Agnes said. She finally looked away from him as she reached into her basket, and Martin let out a slow breath, shoulders slumping. He felt like he’d passed a test he didn’t know he was taking.

“Thank you for taking the time to visit us, Miss Montague,” Jon said, a sharp turnaround from his earlier biting remarks about the groundskeeper’s negligence and incompetency. “I know the walk here isn’t exactly easy.”

“I manage,” Agnes said simply.

Jon closed his mouth and nodded. She removed the three items from her basket, and held them out for Martin to take. There was a cute potted aloe plant, a wine bottle—Tim discreetly shoved their own out of sight—and a strange golden pendant, in the shape of a closed eye. Martin cradled the items in his arms, ensuring none of them fell.

“Housewarming gifts,” she told him. “And, I suppose, to make up for my tardiness.”

“Thank you so much,” Martin said warmly, smiling.

“Of course.”

Tim extracted the wine bottle from Martin’s grasp, and Sasha quickly nabbed the aloe, while Jon merely perused the items with an academic detachment he was using to cover up his heartwarmed appreciation. He was failing spectacularly. Martin was left with only the golden eye pendant, which felt oddly warm under his fingers.

Agnes, seemingly satisfied with a task well-completed, began to walk away, her slender form slipping into the nighttime shadows as the lamplight failed to follow her out.

“Wait!” Martin called, unsure why he did so.

She paused; glanced back. Her eyes were very dark.

“Good luck,” Agnes said quietly, yet he heard her as clearly as though she were right in front of him. She waved a single gloved hand in goodbye, before turning and continuing down the slope of the hill, her dress swaying gently around her ankles, until she reached the treeline and vanished from sight entirely.

Martin closed his fingers around the golden pendant, looking down at it. There were little words engraved in the metal, so small he had to squint to read them. They were in a different language that he vaguely recognized, but couldn’t place.

_Non vigilia, non audire, non video._

“Peculiar,” Jon murmured, and Martin only barely managed not to jump. Jon reached out and lightly touched the pendant, but made no move to take it. “I believe that’s Latin.”

“It’s pretty. I don’t know what I’d use it for, though.”

“Hm...” Jon tapped his chin. It was a motion purely adopted from reading too many YA novels as a child and figuring it was a normal movement that people did all the time. “I always thought you’d look stunning in jewelry.”

Martin gaped at Jon, who did nothing but smile blandly as if he hadn’t given Martin a tremendously deep and meaningful compliment that he was going to take to his grave.

“Come on, slowpokes!” Sasha yelled from the living room, where she and Tim had retreated once Agnes left. “We’ve got more self-indulgent partying to do!”

“And we’re getting sloshed!” Tim added.

“We are getting so incredibly sloshed!”

“Better go join them,” Jon said, “before they break open Miss Montague’s bottle without us.”

“Right. R-Right, yeah.”

Martin shoved the pendant into his pocket and closed the door, shutting out the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes about this chapter:
> 
> \- The title word is something I created. It's just some Latin roots pushed together, because language is fake and I can do whatever I want.  
> \- If you think it's foreshadowing, you're probably right.  
> \- Magnus House's interior is modeled after the [Chateau-sur-Mer mansion](https://my.matterport.com/show/?m=1oPWuJhf74Z&brand=0) in Rhode Island. Not exactly, of course, but loosely enough that it's a helpful guide.  
> \- "Nani" is a word used in a few Indian languages that means "grandmother".  
> \- Agnes! Wife :)) No special note here I just love her.
> 
> Leave a comment if you enjoyed!! It goes a long way toward ensuring chapters keep coming on time <3


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